The Best Laid Plans
by charleygirl
Summary: Christmas plans aft gang a gley, particularly when one's family is involved...
1. Chapter 1

_More seasonal fluff..._

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**THE BEST LAID PLANS…**

**CHAPTER ONE**

"No!" exclaimed Sherlock Holmes, flinging the letter he had spent an incredulous few moments reading into the fire. "Never! Absolutely and emphatically not!"

"It seems like a rather good idea to me," I remarked. Watching him from the corner of my eye, I poured us both a second cup of coffee. "Honestly, old man, an innocent offer of Christmas hospitality is hardly deserving of such a reaction. Whatever is the matter?"

"It is _Cressida's_ offer of hospitality, that is what. And it will _not_ be innocently made. She has some ulterior motive, depend upon it," Holmes declared, snatching up his cigarette case and returning to the breakfast table. After having learnt of her existence a few years ago, and finally met the lady herself the previous summer, I was well aware of the animosity that existed between my friend and his cousin, but had thought that they were on rather better terms in recent months. Evidently I was wrong.

"Why the devil should she?" I enquired. "Christmas is a time for family, after all, and it is only natural that she should want her children to know their relations. I am rather flattered that she had included me in her invitation."

"Anyone would think that we were an old married couple, or a pair of spinsters, the one never seen or invited without the other," Holmes muttered.

I pushed his coffee cup towards him. "What exactly is so objectionable about your family?"

"Beyond the fact that they exist? You have met Cressida, Watson, surely you can reason from the example she presents that it is better to prevent any reunion of the Holmes clan from occurring."

"I don't find her all that bad," I said, and he threw back his head and laughed. "In fact," I added, "there are times when she reminds me of you."

Holmes sobered immediately. "Don't be ridiculous."

"You have allowed me to get to know Cressida," I continued, hiding my smile at his discomfiture behind the rim of my cup. "Why is there such a problem with my meeting the rest of your family?"

He took a long draw on his cigarette and shot me a sidelong glance. "Because," he said eventually, "I have no desire to relive the Christmases of my youth, and I would certainly not inflict that kind of torture upon you, my dear fellow. Believe me, my family and I get along far better when we are – preferably a few hundred – miles apart."

There was little I could say in response to such a pronouncement, so I returned my attention to my cooling breakfast. Holmes sat across the table, silently smoking, a frown embedded between his eyebrows. In truth, I was not entirely surprised that he would wish to avoid any gathering of his family. The haughty Cressida was thawing a little towards me now that we had met upon several occasions, but if the rest of Holmes's relatives were anything like her I could imagine that a few hours spent in their company would be something of a trial for anyone. The knowledge did not, however, stop me being curious about them, and I could not help hoping that for once my friend might change his mind.

* * *

It appeared that Cressida thought that same, for she did not accept Holmes's refusal to grace her planned reunion with his presence.

She wrote to her cousin no fewer than three times following her first letter, even going to the lengths of enclosing a heartfelt plea for attendance from the children, which he dismissed as "emotional blackmail. She is evidently becoming desperate if she has to stoop to such tactics." He stood firm in the face of all entreaties, reiterating his intention that we should have our usual quiet Christmas, away from the onslaught of festive cheer and sentimentality which he disliked so much about the season. I often thought that, were it not for my influence, Holmes would have shut himself up in the house with his violin and copious quantities of tobacco at the beginning of December, and not opened the front door again until New Year.

A complicated case kept us busy until Christmas Eve, much to his delight. Caught up as we were in the initially inexplicable abductions of several department store Father Christmases, it was not until we stood in the manager's office of one of the biggest shops on Oxford Street as evening drew in on the twenty fourth that I realised we had had no time in which to purchase gifts for one another. When the grateful man had ceased wringing an increasingly uncomfortable Holmes by the hand, I suggested that we take the opportunity to look for something suitable. Though he disliked the stores intensely he reluctantly agreed, and together we descended to the bustling sales floor below, Holmes remarking that his willingness to brave the hordes in such an establishment should prove beyond all reasonable doubt his continued regard for me. "I would endure this for no one else," he told me as we emerged from the lift into the hot, heady festive atmosphere.

We agreed to split up and meet half an hour later near the main doors. I thankfully completely my mission to find yet another Christmas gift for Holmes in record time, and idled in the foyer while I waited for him, admiring the sprawling model village which encircled the enormous Christmas tree. The roofs of the houses were dusted with artificial snow, glinting in the coloured light from the new-fangled electric bulbs which dangled from the branches, while a miniature railway snaked between them pulling a load of gaily-wrapped parcels. As I stood there, occasionally scanning the faces in the crowd for any sign of Holmes, I was taken aback when I glanced up as the doors opened to see instead the portly form of his elder brother enter the store, puffing from the exertion. I must have called his name in my surprise, for he turned and flapped a huge hand in my direction.

"Doctor Watson," he rumbled, unwinding the thick muffler from his neck, for it was uncomfortably warm inside the store. "What brings you to this infernal place?"

I indicated the parcel under my arm. "I could ask you the same question."

Mycroft grimaced. "Oh, it is my housekeeper. She discovered that it was my secretary who purchased her gift rather than myself, and now the wretched woman is reproaching me for putting no thought into it. I ask you – Jenkins knows far more about choosing presents from females than I, but one must not argue with the holder of the key to the larder," he said with feeling.

"You are not here to buy a gift for your brother, then?"

"Good God, no. Sherlock and I have not exchanged Christmas gifts since he presented me with a box of frogs when he was ten. The abominable creature got hold of the gold watch our father had promised me and made a substitution. It took me all day to get over the shock – could hardly eat anything for dinner." Eyeing the package I held, he added, "I take it that is for Sherlock? He will not deserve it, whatever it is. You would be better off saving your money."

The subject of our conversation arrived at that moment, also carrying a parcel. He blinked in surprise upon seeing his brother, but merely said, "Doing your own shopping, Mycroft? Has Jenkins come down with influenza, or did he finally tell you to buy your own Christmas presents?"

"My staff would never be so insufferably impertinent," Mycroft retorted. "It is a shame one cannot say the same for relations. By the by, will you be attending Cressida's little gathering tomorrow?"

Holmes arched an eyebrow. "Will you?"

His brother shuddered. "Good Lord, no. She is persistent, I will give her that. Also optimistic, if she thinks she can drag everyone together."

"And quite insane that she should wish to," Holmes said tartly.

"It certainly does seem rather odd. I had thought that Cressida wanted as little to do with them as you or I – after all, none of us have ever been exactly close."

"For good reason. One eccentric in a family is just tolerable – a dozen is absolutely unbearable."

Mycroft glanced at me and raised his brows, indicating his brother with his eyes. I hurriedly turned my laugh into a cough when Holmes glared.

"Well," Mycroft said, ignoring his sibling's annoyance, "I must be off. The necessity of my being forced to make his expedition means that for once I am able to wish you the compliments of the season in person, Sherlock. I will leave it up to you to decide whether or not that is a good thing."

"Thank you, brother mine. I return, I offer the information that they are handing out samples of mince pies and sherry in the food hall," said Holmes. "If you hurry, you may get there before it is all gone."

Mycroft's watery grey eyes lit up at the mention of food. "I shall indeed make my way there. Perhaps Mrs Wyndham will be pacified with a bottle of port. Merry Christmas to you both - the festive season is all the better without the caprices of one's relatives to spoil it." This pronouncement made, he lumbered off in search of mince pies.

* * *

"Well, well, well," said Holmes as we reached our front door some minutes later, "Mycroft in a departmental store. Wonders will never cease!"

"Is your family really all that bad?" I asked, following him up the stairs.

"Worse. My great uncle Didymus expressly forbade everyone from attending his funeral, claiming that as he couldn't stand the sight of any one of us when he was alive, the last thing he wanted was us all gathering to see him into the hereafter. Of course, he probably never considered that some might have wanted to go purely to make sure that he actually _was_ dead."

"Holmes, you are saying these things purely to shock me."

He laughed, and threw his hat and coat in the direction of the stand on the landing. "Ah, Watson, you are lucky enough to have had a normal family," he said, striding into the sitting room. His eye falling on the little potted Christmas tree I had bought despite his objections a few days before, he peered at it and observed, "This pathetic specimen of _Picea abies _will be dead before tomorrow morning if we do not take drastic action."

"Mrs Hudson promised me that she would water it," I began, and stopped as I glanced around the room and suddenly noticed the absence of a fire in the grate and the presence of the luncheon things upon the table several hours after our hurried meal. "Where_ is_ Mrs Hudson?"

Holmes frowned. For our meticulous landlady to leave dirty plates was unheard of. "It would appear that some investigation is in order. Come, Watson."

He led the way back down the stairs. Rarely did we have occasion to venture into Mrs Hudson's domain – upon the one time I dared to enter the kitchen in the early days of our tenancy with the intention of making myself a sandwich, she ran me out again with a scolding worthy of my own mother. This time, the kitchen was empty and so we tried the parlour – Holmes knocked upon the door, and when we received no reply, turned the handle. By this time I was more than half expecting the worst and so was uncommonly relieved to see the good lady hale and hearty and packing a carpet bag rather than unconscious upon the floor. She was caught up in her task and had evidently not heard our entrance, and so Holmes knocked again on the door frame.

Mrs Hudson jumped, her head shot up and she stared at us for a few moments in shock before her shoulders slumped and she smiled slightly. "Mr Holmes, Doctor. I'm sorry – I had no idea you were home."

"That is quite all right, Mrs Hudson," I said. "Whatever has happened – are you going away?"

"I'm afraid so, sir. My sister - "

" – has been taken ill, or at the very least is in some need of your immediate assistance," said Holmes.

Mrs Hudson did not bat an eyelid at his immediate reading of the situation. "I received a telegram only half an hour ago. She's broken her leg, sir, and will be laid up for the next few weeks. The children are scattered now and her Henry can't look after her. I must give her what help I can."

"Indeed you must. Watson, go outside and hail a cab, there's a good chap."

"Of course," I said. "Is there anything I can do, Mrs Hudson?"

Our landlady's smile broadened, and she patted me on the arm. "Bless you, sir, but she's in good hands, being attended to by a very competent young man. I won't drag you away on Christmas Eve – oh!" Her face suddenly fell and her hand flew to her mouth. "I've got nothing prepared, no dinner for you! And tomorrow - "

"It's quite all right, Mrs Hudson," said Holmes smoothly. "We will manage. Now, if Watson will call that cab, I shall take you bag and you will be with your sister in no time."

* * *

"Holmes," I said when we had seen the good woman off in a hansom and my friend had given the driver half a crown to ensure he made all speed, "What are we going to do? About food, I mean?"

"I am sure we can manage something between us," Holmes declared. Once in the sitting room he began to search amongst the detritus on his desk for a matchbox. The air was rapidly becoming frigid, and I shivered involuntarily. "Breakfast will not take much effort if we restrain our appetites, and there must be something in the pantry to tide us over until then."

"Yes, but what about tomorrow? It's Christmas Day, after all. I've been looking forward to roast goose and plum pudding. Toast and a boiled egg isn't quite the same."

"We could always return to Lally and Willetts to purchase a pudding, supposing of course that they have one left," Holmes suggested, running an eye over the teetering stack of old newspapers beside his chair. After a moment's consideration, he rifled through them, put a couple to one side and began to crumple the rest, tossing the resulting balls into the grate.

"They still have to be steamed," I pointed out. "I have no idea how to steam a Christmas pudding. Do you?"

Holmes was distracted by his attempts to light a fire. "I regret to say that in such matters my education was sadly lacking. Perhaps Mrs Hudson has a book of household management we can peruse."

I laughed at that. "I doubt if we can learn to cook Christmas dinner by tomorrow morning, Holmes!"

"It would be a considerable challenge," he said, kneeling on the floor and discarding the tongs he had been using to add coal to the newspaper and kindling in the fireplace. He struck a match, holding it to the paper and waiting for the flame to take. "I do not see - "

He was interrupted by a sudden hammering on the front door. I glanced out of the window and saw that a cab had drawn up outside the house.

"It may be a client."

Cursing under his breath, for the kindling was stubbornly refusing to take light, Holmes shook out the match and got to his feet. He hurried down the stairs, and I heard him open the front door. A surprised exclamation followed, and a few moments later the familiar bulk of Mycroft Holmes entered the room behind his brother.

"Twice in one day, Mycroft. You are becoming a positive gadabout," Holmes said, crossing to his armchair and throwing himself into it.

"This is no time for levity, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped. "Disaster has befallen me – absolute disaster!"

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Has the government collapsed?"

"Far, far worse than that."

"What could possibly be worse?" I wondered.

Mycroft looked extremely serious. "There has been a fire in the kitchens at the Diogenes – everything is utterly ruined. All the food is completely destroyed, reduced to cinders. And no chance of replacing it by tomorrow!"

It was plain that Holmes was trying not to laugh at the thought of his gourmand brother denied his Christmas feast. He was biting hard upon his lip, the corners of his mouth turning inexorably upwards despite his best efforts, and I sought to distract Mycroft before he could notice his brother's less than sympathetic reaction.

"How dreadful," I said. "It would seem to be a day for disasters, for you seem to be in a similar position to us."

Mycroft looked confused, and I quickly explained about Mrs Hudson's sister. "Well," he said when I had finished, "as we all seem to be somewhat adrift, I believe there is only one option under the circumstances."

Holmes's mirth vanished immediately, replaced by an appalled expression. "Mycroft, you surely don't mean…"

"I do," his brother replied. "I fear we must throw ourselves upon Cressida's mercy."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**THE BEST LAID PLANS**

**CHAPTER TWO**

Holmes stared at his brother in horror. "You _have_ to be joking, Mycroft."

"I most certainly am not," Mycroft replied in a tone which suggested that joking was the very last thing on his mind. He turned to me. "Desperate times call for desperate measures, eh, Doctor Watson?"

I could see that Holmes was about to argue, and so said quickly, "Yes. Yes, indeed."

"Watson!" my friend exclaimed, outraged that I was siding with the enemy.

"It is the lesser of two evils, Holmes," I told him. "Christmas won't be any fun with just the two of us and whatever we can scrounge from the pantry, will it?"

Holmes's chin tilted defiantly. "Indeed it will!" he cried. "What could be more appropriate than two old friends sharing the day? Anything must be better than spending it with the bores and misfits Cressida will have gathered together. And as for Cressida herself…"

Mycroft sighed, sharply. "Sherlock, do grow up. You and Cressida have been like two cats fighting over territory since you were both in leading strings. She has invited you to her home, and the very least you can do is endure her company for a few hours. If not for yourself, then make the sacrifice for the Doctor and I – just because you have no love for the season that does not give you the right to deny us a decent Christmas."

"Mycroft, I _am_ thinking of Watson - no one should have to spend five minutes in the company of Wolfram and Igphenia. And as for Theophilus - "

"We are going, Sherlock, and that is my final word on the subject," Mycroft interrupted as only an older brother can, fixing his sibling with a stern glare. "Get your things together – we will leave in ten minutes."

Holmes's mouth worked silently for a few moments, before - much to my surprise - he scowled, turned and flung into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Mycroft gave me a satisfied smile. "He'll come," he said, in answer to my unasked question. "Even Sherlock would not choose to spend Christmas Day alone with only a boiled egg for company." He glanced at the empty fireplace, shivered and ambled towards the door. "It's damnably cold in here – I'll wait in the cab."

"Should we not wire Mrs Cunningham to warn her of our arrival?" I queried.

He waved a hand dismissively. "If she is putting up the rest of the family, I dare say it will be easy enough to squeeze us in." There came the sound of banging drawers and cupboards in Holmes's bedroom, and Mycroft called, "You have five minutes, Sherlock! No more!" His brother's reply, muffled by the thick wood of the door, was curt, and rather rude.

"Well," I said, "We will have to make a return visit to Oxford Street on the way to the station."

Mycroft frowned in confusion. "Whatever for?"

"Is it not traditional for the three wise men to come bearing gifts?"

* * *

In the event, it was nearly two hours later that we arrived at Cressida's large house in Harrow.

Our second, somewhat more desperate, shopping trip of the day had been swift for I was designated by a majority vote (two against one) the best person to choose suitable gifts for the Cunningham family. I ignored Holmes's suggestion of a bottle of hemlock for his cousin, my eye alighting upon a shimmering scarf with which I hoped the lady in question would be pleased. For Xanthe I found a prettily-dressed doll, and the colonel a very fine ash walking stick, but when it came to a present for Master Ptolemy I was unable to dissuade Holmes from the purchase of a chemistry set. I only hoped that the lad's mother would know upon whom to lay the blame for the havoc such a gift would doubtless create.

We were just in time to catch the last train out of Marylebone, and, after waiting at Mycroft's insistence for a cab to present itself at Harrow station, reached the front door just as the church clock on the hill was striking nine. It was cold and crisp, the clouds lowering overhead and threatening snow. Above us I caught a glimpse of a curtain being twitched aside, but though there was light trickling through the gaps in the heavy drapes downstairs I could discern no evidence of a party or gathering taking place within. The house seemed incredibly quiet, and I remarked as much to Holmes, who grunted and said,

"No doubt they are all studiously ignoring each other. Mycroft is not unique amongst our relations in his refusal to be sociable."

As his brother dragged his feet down the path, Mycroft reached the door first and rang the bell. We waited for some moments before the door opened to reveal the nervous maid Cressida employed. Whether she was nervous by nature or purely due to the temperament of her mistress I was unsure, though Holmes claimed it to be the latter. She looked at us very much like a frightened rabbit, flustered by the appearance of three unannounced gentlemen on the doorstep at so late an hour.

Mycroft smiled genially and produced his card. "Would you tell the lady of the house that we are here? She is not expecting us, but I am sure that will not matter."

Wordlessly, the girl took the card, bobbed a hurried curtsy and vanished into the house, leaving us in the cold. With a snort of impatience, Holmes manoeuvred past his brother's bulk and strode into the hall. I glanced at Mycroft, who shrugged, and so we both followed, closing the door behind us and shutting out the chill of the evening.

The spacious hall had been decorated with winter greenery – ivy wound up the banisters, holly framed the portrait of the forbidding Holmes family matriarch, the late great aunt Sophronia, and in the centre of the room stood a large fir tree twinkling with lights. There was a cheerful fire in the grate, and Mycroft drew near, rubbing his hands to restore the circulation while his brother prowled the perimeter of the room. He had completed one circuit and was embarking upon another when the door to the drawing room opened and Cressida emerged. She stood there with her arms folded across her chest, an ice queen in pale blue satin, her incredibly fair hair piled on her head. Regarding us balefully, she said,

"I had no idea that carol singing had become an indoor pastime. You may perform one song, and I expect to hear all the verses or I shall not part with a penny."

Holmes smiled thinly. "And a merry Christmas to you too, Cressida."

"We do apologise for this intrusion, Mrs Cunningham," I interjected before they could begin their customary bickering.

"So I should think," she replied frostily. Her eye fell upon the bulk of her elder cousin by the fire and her lashes fluttered in a brief expression of surprise. "Good God, Mycroft, it really _is_ you! I thought the card was just Sherlock trying to be funny. Has the Diogenes burned down?"

"Not quite," muttered Holmes.

Mycroft dragged himself away from the fire and gave Cressida an affable smile. "Good evening, my dear cousin. You are looking well. It is true that we have all suffered calamity today, and so we hoped that you might be able to accommodate three weary travellers. We have come bearing suitable festive offerings - is that not right, Doctor Watson?"

Before I could even open my mouth to agree, Cressida shook her head. "Unfortunately, that will not be possible. There is no room at the inn. You will have to go somewhere else for your dinner."

Holmes's mouth twitched. "She has your measure, Mycroft."

"And precisely why are _you_ here, Sherlock?" she demanded, rounding on him. "You saw fit to turn down my offer of hospitality _four_ times, the last in the strongest terms!"

"Given the company you were proposing, I do not see why it should have come as a surprise," he shot back. "If you can endure Wolfram's presence, then surely you can put up with mine for a few hours."

"I would be more inclined to throw you out in the street!"

"Children, please," said Mycroft, exasperated. "Can you not call a truce, just until Boxing Day? It is the season of goodwill, after all."

Ignoring his brother, Holmes bristled defensively. "If that is what you wish, I shall return to Baker Street," he said. "I only came here under duress."

"If that is the case then go home by all means!" Cressida snapped. "I have - "

She was prevented from continuing by the pattering of feet on the stairs, and two small figures in wraps and nightgowns tumbled into the hall.

"Cousin Sherlock!"

"Doctor Watson!"

"We saw you from the window!"

"Mama said you weren't coming!"

"Have you brought us presents?"

Holmes looked rather disconcerted to find Xanthe, dark curls askew, suddenly clinging to his legs. Ptolemy, as befitted his status as elder brother, confined himself to merely tugging enthusiastically on my sleeve. They chattered on, talking over each other in their excitement, until Cressida called for quiet.

"The two of you should be in bed," she scolded. "Where is Frost?"

"Fallen asleep," said Ptolemy.

His mother frowned. "I will be having words with her later. It is past your bedtime – if you are not under the covers in the next five minutes, Father Christmas will not be coming to this house tonight."

"Oh, Mama…"

"He's here already!" Xanthe announced, peering round Holmes with wide eyes. We all looked at each other in confusion until she pointed to Mycroft. "See!"

I tried not to laugh. With his rotund figure, white whiskers and bright red scarf, it was true that the elder Holmes did bear at least a passing resemblance to Father Christmas. Sherlock showed no such restraint, throwing back his head and barking his amusement before directing an apologetic look at his brother when Mycroft glared at him.

Xanthe blinked in confusion. "You are Father Christmas, aren't you?"

"Of course he's not!" said Ptolemy loftily. "Don't be such a goose, Xanth."

"Well, he _looks_ like Father Christmas."

"Perhaps a change of career is on the horizon, Mycroft," Holmes said with a snigger.

"Thank you, Sherlock," Mycroft replied. He bent down with a great effort to be more on Xanthe's level, and said, "I regret that I am not Father Christmas, my dear. He will be arriving much later this evening."

"This is cousin Sherlock's brother," I told the children.

They both stared at Mycroft, and then at Holmes. Ptolemy frowned. "I don't believe you."

Mycroft straightened. "And why ever not?"

The lad waved a hand, encompassing them both. "Well, you don't look like each other."

Holmes tried to suppress a smile. "You do not look much like your sister."

"Oh, that's different," said Ptolemy. "She's a girl. I mean, you're so thin and he's - "

Thankfully we were spared this revelation by the drawing room door opening once more, resulting in the addition of Colonel Charles Cunningham to our little party in the hall.

"Cressy, what the devil is going on? Is it – oh, hello. It _is_ you," he said upon seeing us. He glanced at his wife. "I thought you told me no one was - "

"We have fallen upon hard times, Charles, and have come to trespass upon your hospitality," Mycroft explained before Cressida could speak.

"Ah, I see. Good show." Cunningham frowned. "Why are we all standing in the hall?"

"The guardian of the gate will not allow us to pass," said Holmes, and Cressida scowled.

"Really? How strange. She was only just now complaining that we had all this food and no one to eat it. The rest of the family cried off, you see," the colonel said, apparently oblivious to the murderous looks his wife was now directing at his back.

Holmes arched an eyebrow, turning to his cousin. "Did they now? How interesting."

There was a silence. From Cressida's expression it was clear that she could not decide whether to throttle Holmes or her husband first. The children looked confused, and I felt rather like a man who is unsure whether the bomb he has just come across is live or not. Eventually, Mycroft clapped his hands together and asked,

"As this is evidently going to be a long evening, would there be the slightest chance of a glass of sherry?"

* * *

"So they all turned you down," said Sherlock Holmes two hours later, when it was nearing midnight and we all sat around the fire, basking in its glow. In the dim light the candles on the drawing room tree winked invitingly, the shadows they created dancing upon the gift wrapped parcels stacked beneath.

The children had been packed off to bed with the promise of a visit from Father Christmas, but not before they insisted upon my telling them a story. I found myself relating the case of the purloined present, an investigation from my early days with Holmes, while the man himself sat on the end of Ptolemy's bed and interpolated his own recollections of the matter, correcting me when I misremembered a fact. It made me grateful that I did not submit my writings to him before sending them for publication. At length we were chased away by Miss Frost the nanny, who had been woken from her nap by an irritated Cressida, and descended to find Mycroft snoring in the largest armchair and Colonel Cunningham offering a glass of hot punch.

It did not take long for the alcohol to reduce us all to a mellow state, even Holmes and his cousin, who had reluctantly agreed to call a truce and now sat quite companionably side by side on the sofa while the colonel and I discussed India. Before long our own conversation petered out as we listened to theirs.

"Two at the last minute," Cressida replied. "Aunt Adelphia never even replied – I doubt if she even found the letter under those hordes of cats she keeps. And as for Theophilus…my note was returned stamped 'Whereabouts Unknown'."

"The last I heard of Theophilus, he was halfway up the Amazon hoping to discover some new flora or fauna. He was not particularly bothered which, as long as he could name it after himself," Holmes said. "I would expect that there is a high chance he may have been eaten by cannibals by now."

"Holmes!" I protested. "Whether you like him or not, the man is still a relative!"

"Third cousin once removed, and even that relationship is too close."

"Even so, to speak of him in such a way - "

"It's quite all right, Doctor Watson," said Cressida. "If you had ever met Theophilus, you would know that Sherlock is joking - no discerning cannibal would touch him."

I shook my head. "I am sorry, but yours is a most peculiar family."

Holmes chuckled. "Quite so, Watson, quite so." He glanced at Cressida. "What of Wolfram and Igphenia?"

She sat back on the settee, brushing down her skirts. "They did accept - much to my surprise, I will admit. Then they received an invitation to Scotland – you know what Wolfram is like when he gets a chance to shoot at anything furry and defenceless."

He snorted. "The wonder of it is that he has never taken aim at Igphenia. She qualifies upon both counts."

I jumped as Cressida's braying laughter caught me by surprise. Her husband barely turned a hair. "Oh, she does indeed!" she exclaimed. Holmes smiled wickedly.

"Holmes," I said, my tone mildly chiding. "Goodwill to all men – and women. Remember?"

He raised his eyebrows at me over the rim of his glass. "Why did you invite any of them?" he asked his cousin. "You like them no more than I do, and the feeling is mutual. There is surely no reason to endure their company voluntarily. That is why I have avoided doing so for over twenty years."

Cressida shrugged and took a sip of punch. It was potent stuff, and I made a mental note to ask the colonel exactly what he had put into it. I refused another glass when it was offered, my eyelids already heavy from its effects. "The children deserved to have a family Christmas," she said. "I had hoped that as we were all so much older we might be able to put those excruciating times at Aunt Sophronia's behind us."

"I believe you may have hoped for too much there," Holmes muttered with a grimace. "I for one will carry those memories with me until my dying day. All of the children being cloistered together until the adults had finished their meal and deigned to allow us into the drawing room for interminable parlour games. And then when we were older she would not even allow us a glass of wine to help dull the pain!"

"We had to wait until six o'clock to open our presents, too."

"No wonder the two of you spent so much time arguing," observed the colonel, moustache twitching in amusement.

"Well, you _do_ have a family Christmas," I pointed out, "Even if it does take disaster to bring you together."

Cressida giggled into her drink. "For our family, that is highly appropriate."

Holmes threw back his head. "_Ha_! Oh, Watson – you do realise that you have become an honorary member of the Holmes clan?"

"If it means a convivial Christmas, my dear fellow, I believe I can live with that," I told him. He nodded, satisfied, and then nearly leapt into the air as Cressida, eyelids drooping, listed sideways, her fair head coming to rest on his shoulder. As a very unladylike snore reached our ears it was apparent that the punch had finally had its ultimate effect on her.

Colonel Cunningham frowned and raised his glass to the light to examine the ruby red liquid it held. "Perhaps I was overgenerous with the port," he mused, and I found myself laughing. Holmes quickly followed suit, and it was not long before our mirth roused Mycroft, who sat up and demanded to know who let a pack of blasted hyenas into the room. His indignation at being awoken only increased our merriment, fuelled no doubt by the copious amount of alcohol we had consumed.

The clock struck twelve, and as the children two flights above us waited excitedly for Christmas to come, I reasoned that occasionally a disaster could be a blessing in disguise. There was really no better way to celebrate the season than with family, even if mine was a surrogate one.

FIN

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_A very Merry Christmas to all, and huge thanks to those who have reviewed and enjoyed my stories this year. :)_


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